Best Harrowing Poems
the darkest hour in the pale bubble of the moon
cool midnight, lonely solvent for tomorrow
raking stars like marbled glitter
shade and shadow merge as one
all asleep, earth and hearth
my heart beats deep in mantle's drum
nightbirds chased by whispered death
silent fled and silent gone
slumbered in diurnal rhythm
a house squats dim, creaks and hums
filled with soothing dreams, soft murmurs
but it's our nightmares make us run
die a little in morning's light
dying to let born generations come
curse on one ignored in time's passing
my longing grown to repair the night
as smolt fed on sire's flesh, frenzied for pacific salt
young blood beat hot against the parent's net
tho' soft and green as summer's grass
windblown swayed with soft rain sounds
lit blazing fire-lance, bursting hearts
flared out into constellation's realm
cupped by fair Tethys, far above a dreamer's sight
and spent fathers rest below, weary now in mortal hands
They built an abattoir for man
In the heart of the land
Where rythm of catridges played ballad
To hapless P.O.W. of the ballot.
I That Expose Heaving Breast To Harrowing Night
(BORN FROM NIGHT BATTLES IN YOUTH FIERCELY FOUGHT)
I that expose heaving breast to harrowing night
Daring to curse fate, defying its awesome might
Live in this world as an old and cold lonesome stone
After midnight face those horrendous beastly moans
Do so despite broken sword and battered shield
Fight in dark realms, void of any flowering fields.
With ancient scarred shield, and heaping acres of hope.
Scribed with Latin words, proclaiming truth to cope.
I that have deep, gashing wounds that refuse to heal
See the busy, blinded crowds wonder how that feels
Thank our God for that respite born from words of praise
Summon angels to sing out to him God did raise
Asking that I may live to see another day.
With ancient scarred shield, and heaping acres of hope.
Scribed with Latin words, proclaiming truth to cope.
I that expose heaving breast to harrowing night
Daring to curse fate, defying its awesome might
Live in this world as an old and cold lonesome stone
After midnight face those horrendous beastly moans
Do so despite broken sword and battered shield
Fight in dark realms, void of any flowering fields.
With ancient scarred shield, and heaping acres of hope.
Scribed with Latin words, proclaiming truth to cope.
Robert J. Lindley, August 11th 1996
Rhyme
( In quibus virtus et fides coniunguntur ad victoriam reportandam )
Note: 12-18-2021
Found this poem from back in the 90's while researching past
creations to inspire myself to write today. And I did write today
but then I decided to go ahead and present this oldie. I hope it
may inspire somebody and give courage to endure travails this
dark world may have thrown their way..--RJL
Sighs and tears escaped
From an enamored couple
When both realized
Love had withered forever
Lacking of fertilizers
6-10-2016
Harrowing Experience Was To Me
Had thought for a while;
Harrowing experience,
Really was to me.
About politics;
All of the idiots there;
None a friend of mine.
Jim Horn
I hold on the fig upon the tree, it cannot fall too far from it
if I were to pull upon it, surely it will not stay in tranquility,
as I hold it in my bear hands, I know it feels what I feel
I have experienced happiness in this woven of life,
nourishing my joy through the sun and its light,
perhaps I have been eager to stand up high in the branch,
because the light that has been too bright knew to tarnish me
Before I have came to knowing you, a door opened to my life,
I had a choice in reality whether I should run or hide, conveying myself to reveal my botheration, would it change the events that occur in my home inside?
Let alone those words enclose deeply, as I await alone for this situation to stop spilling emotions I tend to give out freely
I cannot seal myself from what I come to experience,
driven through seasonal changes, anger, and numbness the emotions I cannot cleanse,
maybe if I to abandon what is around me, then I will continue to grow,
But because I left out the will of staying strong, the water still will not flow
I am fearful of my surroundings like i’m prisoned of guilt,
The truth cannot speak itself, but only to others if it's true,
Why is it that I toss and turn on my stem?
peddling my emotions down a thoughtful situation, but dishesitant of knowing
that what I can hope for is out of the blue
As I light my candle, in my sanctuary of peace
I put my hands together, relieved as my sorrow decease
Through my heart and soul surrendering what my mind hides beneath,
I call upon the one and only God, for he knows the path for me
As tears escape my face, I felt my stem grow stronger,
they burst out in sadness, and swiftly in a smile
I come to now redeem in what has burdened me, as I acknowledge I am
not the situations that is suddenly created,
but the light of what it can be changed to.
Hills speak of a weathering,
each lays bare
an allegory of bereavement.
Grief has its own inward milling.
What once was the high pulse
of rapture
is now the nag of a heartbeat
sheathed
like a stone in a shoe.
When you try to name the hurt,
objectify its presence,
it turns into a dog,
a child,
a perfect stranger,
a place lost or
a place that found you lost
and there it sets
a table and chair before you
so you can write from that place
to explain
the curling vine of your sorrow
before it became
a smooth worn pebble
you now chafe and harrow
with threadbare fingers.